


Wretched and Divine

by dracoqueen22



Series: Master and Commander [5]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Pet, Painplay, Shockstick, Spanking, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, genital punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control and trust. Having both handed to him was all the satisfaction that Bluestreak needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wretched and Divine

He knew from the moment Jazz presented his wrists to be bound that today would test both of them. There was an underlying buzz to Jazz's field, an indication that he was holding something back. Whether by accident or design, Bluestreak did not know, but he would uncover the secret. It was part of the agreement.  
  
No secrets. No lies. No subterfuge.  
  
Without that honesty, Bluestreak would walk away. And Jazz had agreed.  
  
This, however, did not tell Bluestreak the matter. That, too, could be part of the game.  
  
Jazz stood in front of him, visor dim, helm tilted upward. The height difference between them could be measured in inches, but Bluestreak outmassed his lover. He didn't, however, for one second think that he outclassed Jazz. There was a vast difference of capability between them.  
  
That knowledge made Jazz's submission all the sweeter.  
  
Bluestreak cycled a ventilation and centered himself. It was time to get in the right headspace. He prided himself on his control.  
  
He drew his energy field tight, leaving less for Jazz to read from him, and approached his lover. Jazz's visor didn't brighten, but Bluestreak knew his every motion was being tracked.  
  
Bluestreak took a length of cord, silky and soft, and wrapped it around Jazz's wrists. He wanted the illusion of being bound today. It made it that much harder for Jazz to obey. The challenge added to the frustration. Somehow, it was worse than the cuffs.  
  
He knew he'd made the right choice when Jazz shivered. His visor dimmed further. His ex-vents whispered against Bluestreak's armor.  
  
He tapped a finger on Jazz's bottom lip and then let it rest there. "Open."  
  
The delicate plating twitched beneath the weight of his finger, but his mouth did not open. Again, not unexpected. Today was not going to be a day of obedience.  
  
Bluestreak pressed more firmly. "Open."  
  
Jazz's helm tilted ever so slightly, but his mouth stayed closed.  
  
Alright then.  
  
Bluestreak moved fast, the shockstick dropping into his hand and powering up with a distinct crackle. The second demand was the warning. Jazz didn't get a third.  
  
He jabbed the stick into a gap between two armor plates on Jazz's side. It was on its lowest setting but the sudden addition of sharp charge to delicate protoform was still uncomfortable.  
  
Jazz startled, lips parting a fraction, and Bluestreak's thumb slipped inside. Jazz's engine growled at him as if to say "low blow." Bluestreak almost forgot to keep his smirk to himself. He hooked his thumb into Jazz's lower jaw and braced himself.  
  
There was every possibility that Jazz would bite.  
  
He didn't this time. But Bluestreak wasn't about to relax. He pushed his thumb deeper, letting the length of it sit on Jazz's glossa. And then he pressed down, pinning Jazz's glossa to the bottom of his mouth. The tip of Bluestreak's thumb curved deep, hitting a sensor that tended to trigger the purge reflex.  
  
Jazz jolted. Bluestreak watched his intake flutter. He heard Jazz's tank gurgle.  
  
“Don't you dare purge,” Bluestreak warned.  
  
The corner of Jazz's mouth twitched. He stared back at Bluestreak, defiant.  
  
“On your knees,” Bluestreak said. He held up the shockstick, the charge buzzing at the tip. It snapped and crackled in warning.  
  
Jazz lowered himself to the floor, and Bluestreak followed him, his thumb continuing to pin Jazz's glossa down. Oral lubricant pooled around it, gathering at the corners of Jazz's mouth. Soon enough, it would dribble out, down his chin, onto his bumper.  
  
Bluestreak's array warmed.  
  
“Open your panels. Extend your spike.”  
  
Jazz obeyed. Bluestreak's suspicions grew. Jazz had rounded the corner back from disobedience. Why?  
  
Bluestreak removed his thumb. “Keep your mouth open,” he said. “Stick out your glossa.”  
  
A ghost of a smirk curved Jazz's lips, but again, he obeyed. Hmmm.  
  
Bluestreak circled his partner, decreasing the charge on the shockstick. He wanted to startle, not harm at this point. Lubricant dripped from Jazz's valve to the floor. It formed the tiniest of puddles. Jazz's fingers sat lax within the light cord.  
  
“Stroke your spike. Don't overload.”  
  
Jazz reached down, curled fingers around his spike, and teased himself. Bluestreak's optics narrowed.  
  
“You're hiding something,” he observed and stepped up behind Jazz. He worked a pede between Jazz's legs, his shin nudging Jazz's aft.  
  
“You think obedience means I won't go looking for it.” He lifted his leg, let the tip of his pede push at Jazz's valve, coating it in lubricants.  
  
“Oh, pet, don't you know me by now?” He rubbed and felt the flutters of Jazz's valve rim against his plating.  
  
Jazz didn't make a sound. His armor rippled in a wave, top to bottom. The scent of his arousal grew thicker. His engine purred.  
  
“Bend over,” Bluestreak said as he rubbed his pede over Jazz's valve again. “Aft up. Face down. Elbows on the ground.”  
  
Again, Jazz obeyed. But every motion was slow, as though designed to tease. He languidly removed his fingers from his spike and tilted forward. He widened his knees, pressed his face to the floor, his array on display. His spike dribbled. The biolights around his valve pulsed, no doubt in time to the beat of his spark. The fold around the rim of his valve was plump and swollen.  
  
Begging for punishment, if you asked Bluestreak.  
  
Hmm. Now there was a thought.  
  
Bluestreak flicked the shockstick off and tossed it to the side. He wouldn't need it anymore this session. He lowered himself into a crouch behind Jazz, putting himself in perfect proximity to that clenching, hungry valve. Lubricant seeped from the port, trickling downward until it joined Jazz's spike and the pre-fluid dripping to the floor.  
  
Bluestreak traced the rim of Jazz's valve with a single fingertip.  
  
“I wonder what it is you are hiding,” he began conversationally as he heard Jazz's intakes hitch and another ripple traveled over Jazz's armor.  
  
He ended the circle-trace at Jazz's glowing nub, which he gave a light flick. Jazz's hips jerked, but otherwise, he didn't move.  
  
“I thought we agreed that there would be no secrets between us, pet,” Bluestreak said as he stroked Jazz's valve again, keeping his touches light and arousing. Calming even.  
  
Jazz's fans clicked on. His frame thrummed, pent-up arousal thick in his field, ripe in his scent. His valve folds twitched under Bluestreak's gentle strokes.  
  
“I thought you knew to tell me everything. That my audials were open for you. That only I could judge your mistakes, isn't that right?”  
  
Nothing. Not a sound. Not so much as a whimper.  
  
Belligerent to the end, was he?  
  
Bluestreak smirked.  
  
The tip of his finger circled Jazz's anterior node, applying a constant and delicate pressure, that felt good as much as it hurt. The unrelenting stimulation was like a low heat that grew into a slow burn and then a raging inferno.  
  
Over and over and over until Jazz's thighs trembled and his hips gave the tiniest of sways.  
  
“Well?” Bluestreak prompted as he briefly dipped a finger into Jazz's valve, just enough to wet it, before he returned the tip of his digit to Jazz's blazing anterior node. The thinnest of whimpers eked from Jazz's vocalizer.  
  
“Are you going to talk to me?” Bluestreak asked, careful to keep his vocal tones light and wheedling. Coaxing even.  
  
Jazz's fingers curled into fists and then uncurled. Static rippled out from under his armor.  
  
Bluestreak continued the steady, heavy circles on Jazz's node. It swelled beneath his ministrations. He swore he felt the pulse of Jazz's spark through it. There was a point, he knew, that this kind of stimulation tipped over into pain. But it was a good kind of pain. An aching pleasure that was both delightful and agonizing.  
  
He wasn't going to stop until Jazz gave him what he wanted. But he might pause for a moment, just to throw his pet off balance.  
  
Jazz twitched, knees scraping as they shifted minutely across the floor, almost as though he were trying to escape Bluestreak's touch. But Bluestreak moved with him, only pausing long enough to sweep more lubricant over his fingertip.  
  
He rubbed, and rubbed, and then pinched, and was rewarded with an outright jerk of Jazz's hips.  
  
“You came here,” Bluestreak continued, speaking since Jazz refused to do so. “So I assume that means you wanted to tell me. And yet, all I get is silence. It makes me wonder why, pet. It makes me wonder what you're holding back.”  
  
Another pinch. A harsher jerk. A wet sweep of his fingers. And then he stopped. He counted ventilations. Jazz's node pulsed. Jazz squirmed, a low whine rippling through his engine.  
  
“Well?”  
  
One. Two. Three.  
  
Bluestreak grinned. And then he slapped his hand against the entirety of Jazz's valve, the flat of his palm grazing that swollen nub as the tips of his fingers stung the swelling, sensitive rim.  
  
Jazz shouted a curse. He seized forward, but Bluestreak grabbed his hip with his free hand, keeping him from going too far.  
  
“And where do you think you're going?” he asked with another slap to Jazz's valve that sent his partner lurching forward again. “I didn't say you could move.”  
  
Jazz's lips parted on a breathy exhale. His valve throbbed, squeezing out more dribbles of lubricant. Every wave of his field screamed arousal and need, begging for more. His frame tried to escape, an unconscious action Bluestreak knew, but the rest of him wanted more.  
  
So Bluestreak obliged.  
  
He returned his attention to that glowing, hot nub. He rubbed it over and over, in gentle circles. Jazz kept leaning forward, his lower half quivering, and every time he moved too far, Bluestreak gave him a smack on the valve.  
  
The last earned him a yelp, a staticky moan, and a ringing, “Sir!”  
  
It wasn't an answer. But it was a vocalization. It was a start.  
  
“Oh? Are you finally interested in talking?” Bluestreak asked as he gathered more lubricant and pinched Jazz's nub between his fingertips, a pressure that edged a shade toward pain.  
  
A thin whine eased out of Jazz's intake. “N-no,” he stuttered, words eclipsed by static.  
  
“Is that right?”  
  
_Smack. Smack. Smack._  
  
Each time his palm landed, Jazz jerked. His engine screeched into a higher pitch, roaring and rattling. His hands tightened into fists and he tilted forward, until Bluestreak dragged him back.  
  
Next time, he was going to have to immobilize Jazz somehow. He didn't feel like chasing his pet across the room.  
  
“Are you sure?” Bluestreak prompted as he pinched Jazz's node and then stroked across it, the bright sensor blinking fitfully at him.  
  
Jazz's elbows wobbled. He sagged forward, his weight resting on his bumper as his knees scraped farther open. More charge crawled out from under his armor. His field was a dizzying press of open need.  
  
“Or maybe,” Bluestreak continued with a purr as he softened his touches, gathering lubricant on the pad of his thumb and tracing it around the housing of Jazz's anterior node. It was close enough that the nub could sense the fiction, but not experience it.  
  
“Maybe you want me to stop,” Bluestreak said as Jazz's ventilations cycled rapidly and his cooling fans dumped a desperate heat into the room. “That must be it.” He nodded to himself and with a parting tap to Jazz's node, pulled his hand away.  
  
“No, Master, please!” Jazz gasped out, his hips wriggling backward. His valve clenched, lubricant slicking his thighs, forming a puddle beneath his hips. “I'll… I'll...”  
  
“Tell me what I want to know?” Bluestreak supplied. His own spark started to flicker madly, excitement growing within him. Arousal pooled in his groin, but right now was about Jazz.  
  
Perhaps his pet would be interested in suckling him to completion later. But for now, Bluestreak wanted his answer.  
  
“I can't!” Jazz wailed, and this time, he sounded sincere.  
  
Bluestreak understood in an instant. “I see,” he said, and stroked the rim of Jazz's valve, which fluttered underneath his fingertips. “Then I'll save that mystery for another time. Right now, I want your pleasure, and you will give it to me, understood?”  
  
“Yes, Master,” Jazz panted. Relief colored his field in such an encompassing wave that Bluestreak knew he'd made the right choice.  
  
“If I don't get it in the count of ten,” Bluestreak said, pressing his thumb to Jazz's nub and rubbing hard, “You will forfeit your overload to me. Understood?”  
  
Another whine eeked out of Jazz's vocalizer. A tremble wracked him from head to foot. His field fluttered wildly, heat pouring off his frame.  
  
Bluestreak's free hand slid from Jazz's hip to his spike, which he squeezed before loosening his grip. He stroked down the length of it, and pinched the head between two fingers.  
  
“I want a verbal confirmation, pet,” he warned. “The count of ten. Do you understand?”  
  
Jazz panted, his face turning against the floor until Bluestreak could make out the bright glow of his visor, peeking from above the cradle of his arms. “Y-yeah. Yes, sir.” His hips rolled toward Bluestreak's fingers. “Th' count o' ten.”  
  
Bluestreak stroked his palm down the length of Jazz's valve, the heel of it rubbing harshly against Jazz's node. “Good pet,” he said. “Count for me.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Jazz moaned.  
  
Bluestreak started to rub Jazz's valve, the fingers of his other hand rolling the head of Jazz's spike.  
  
“One.”  
  
The pauses between each were noticeable. A hitched ventilation. A crackle of static.  
  
“Two.”  
  
A scrape of his fingertips against the floor.  
  
Bluestreak slid two fingers into Jazz's valve, pumping them steadily before he withdrew them, and concentrated his efforts on Jazz's node.  
  
“Three. Ah!”  
  
Four trailed off into a garbled cry as Jazz rocked back. Bluestreak had pinched his node, squeezing it between his fingertips, before gathering more lubricant to stroke it again.  
  
“S-sir!” Jazz pleaded, his field thick and heavy with need.  
  
“I said for you to count, pet,” Bluestreak warned and slapped his palm against Jazz's valve, twice in succession. The wet slap of metal on metal echoed in the room.  
  
The blazing valve turned scorching and swollen.  
  
Jazz positively whined, vocalizer spitting out a static-laced “Five!”  
  
Bluestreak's groin warmed and he sent several refusals to his equipment. This was not about his pleasure at the moment.  
  
“Better,” he said. “Now continue.”  
  
He rubbed his thumb on Jazz's node. The little nub pulsed at him, hotter and hotter. More lubricant drizzled out of his valve, forming quite the mess on the floor.  
  
“Six,” Jazz moaned.  
  
Bluestreak took pity on him, fisting Jazz's spike and giving it a squeezing stroke. Jazz's engine revved. His field drizzled out desperation.  
  
“Seven,” he gasped, a desperate sound, as though he was so close, but also knew he was running out of time.  
  
Bluestreak watched him, avid, as Jazz squirmed in his hold. As he rocked back and forth on the floor, his fingers kneading the ground, his hips twitching. His valve fluttered as Bluestreak continued to rub at his rim and node.  
  
Over and over and over again.  
  
“Eight,” Jazz whimpered and his knees scraped the floor. “Master, please, I--”  
  
“You'll count,” Bluestreak said, struggling to keep his tone cold. “And you'll overload at the count of ten, pet.”  
  
Jazz's valve throbbed desperately. “Yes, Master,” he said, oral lubricant leaking from his mouth as he managed a dim, “N-nine, Master.”  
  
Charge crackled out from under Jazz's armor. It lit the room in brilliant white arcs. Bluestreak pinched and rolled his anterior node, a startling mix of pleasure and pain that had Jazz crying out, his armor scraping against the floor.  
  
“Ten!” he wailed, a cry of despair.  
  
But Bluestreak took that moment to slap at his valve and the sharp impact of his palm against Jazz's valve rim and node jolted throughout Jazz's entire frame. His backstrut curved. His denta gnashed together, lips pulled back in a snarl.  
  
Jazz overloaded, so hard that his entire frame thrashed in Bluestreak's grip. Spike and valve both, transfluid splattering the floor and valve pulsing a steady stream of lubricant. His ventilations roared, cooling fans rattling on max.  
  
Primus, he was hot.  
  
Jazz sagged in Bluestreak's grip, panting, his tense frame gradually loosening. His visor flickered fitfully.  
  
Bluestreak rested one hand on his hip. The other stroked Jazz's aft, though he was careful to avoid the swollen and now sensitive interfacing array. He counted the clicks of Jazz's cooling frame, giving Jazz a few moments to collect himself.  
  
“Jazz?”  
  
Jazz made a humming noise in his vocalizer. His legs trembled. “Good, sir,” he mumbled and tilted a little further forward, almost stretched out on his front on the floor. His spike was already retracting into the safety of its housing.  
  
Bluestreak rubbed along his backstrut. “How do you feel?”  
  
“Good. Floaty. Tired.” Jazz made another humming noise and slumped a little further.  
  
Bluestreak's lips twitched. All were good signs.  
  
He shifted to his knees and scooted around Jazz, reaching for his partner's wrists. He untied the simple bonds, setting Jazz free, and checked to make sure he hadn't damaged himself. There was a little scuffing, but nothing that would warrant a visit to Ratchet.  
  
“Can you move?” Bluestreak asked. “The berth is more comfortable than the floor.”  
  
Jazz, spike fully retracted, tilted onto his side and into a languid stretch. Though, Bluestreak noticed, he didn't press his thighs fully together.  
  
“Are you in pain?”  
  
“Only the good kind.” Jazz's glossa flicked over his lips and then his visor flickered on, helm tilting before he located Bluestreak. “You're so good to me, Blue.”  
  
There were scuffs on Jazz's knees and his bumper, but Bluestreak would buff those out for him later. That was, if Jazz even wanted him to. Sometimes, he liked to walk around the Ark with said scuffs like badges of honor. It amused him that no one could pinpoint who'd given him said scuffs.  
  
“Want me ta be good ta ya?” Jazz asked with a little aft wiggle, a far cry from his usual attempt at seduction.  
  
Bluestreak shook his helm. “No. I'm good for now.” He braced himself on one pede and held up his hands. “Come on. Let's get you up.”  
  
It took some doing. Bluestreak was slightly taller, definitely heavier, but even so, he grunted with the effort of hauling Jazz to his pedes. Jazz swayed when he was upright, knees as limp as jelly. When he said he was sated, he meant it. He leaned heavily on Bluestreak's side, all purring engine and humming ventilations.  
  
“Mmm.” Jazz pressed his nose to the corner of Bluestreak's own ample bumper. “My favorite. Eau de Bluestreak.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “You really are loopy,” he said, as he curved an arm around Jazz and they staggered to the berth. “You start talking all kinds of nonsense when you're on a pleasure high. And everyone says I'm the chatterbox.”  
  
Jazz pawed at his abdomen, but it was half-sparked and clumsy. His limbs dragged and it took great effort for Bluestreak to get him on the berth, especially since he didn't want to jostle sensitive components. He took advantage of Jazz's lascivious sprawl, however, to get a second look at his swollen interfacing unit.  
  
“You sure you don't hurt at all?” Bluestreak asked.  
  
Jazz's folds were still a touch flushed. The rapid flickering of his anterior node had eased, however. It had sunk back into the protective hood.  
  
“Only the good kind.” Jazz lifted his arms and made grabby motions at Bluestreak. “Come on. Want snuggles.” He flashed Bluestreak a dopey grin.  
  
“I know you do. Just let me finish--”  
  
“Blue, I'm okay,” Jazz insisted, and he sounded more alert this time, though it was hard to believe given the way he kept making grabby motions. “Seriously. Nothin' ta bother Ratchet over. Nothin' my self-repair won't fix overnight. Ya did good. Now get up here and snuggle me.”  
  
Bluestreak grinned. “Yes, Master.”  
  
“Ya better watch it or I'll swat you next.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled and obeyed. He sent the command for the lights to dim – Jazz had given him access long ago – and joined Jazz on the berth. He carefully arranged his door panels and settled on his back, unsurprised when Jazz scooted around and tucked himself against Bluestreak's side. His right leg hooked over Bluestreak's left, further preventing pressure on his interface panel.  
  
“I dunno. I'd probably like it,” Bluestreak said as he curved an arm around Jazz's back, keeping the saboteur close to him. “The swatting, I mean. I've done it before. With Ratchet. I dunno how he does it, but he always makes everything feel good.”  
  
Jazz snickered. “I'd be jealous if I didn't know Ratchet better.” His hand rested on Bluestreak's abdominal armor, the weight of it negligible but welcome.  
  
“Still that was… different,” Jazz murmured. His thigh slid over Bluestreak's, the heat of his valve wafting against Bluestreak's armor.  
  
“Yeah? Ratchet gave me the idea. He has all the best ideas.”  
  
Jazz snickered. “Yeah. I know. So you've said.” He snuggled in closer, his ex-vents tickling at Bluestreak's heated armor.  
  
“Next time, I'll tie you down completely,” Bluestreak murmured as he traced his fingers in Jazz's seams, though careful to avoid the sensitive nub. “And then I'll touch you here, over and over, until you can't do anything but feel. What do you think of that?”  
  
Jazz hummed deep in his intake, burrowing deeper into Bluestreak's chestplate. But his thighs parted further, his hips rolling toward Bluestreak's touch.  
  
“Yer gonna kill me,” he said, almost petulant.  
  
Bluestreak grinned and nuzzled his cheek against Jazz's helm. “Isn't that what the humans call it, a 'little death'? It'll be the best feeling in the world though. You'll float for days. I promise.”  
  
“Ya done it before?”  
  
Bluestreak cycled a ventilation. “Yeah,” he said, though he shied away from actually accessing the memory. That was a long time ago, a Praxus ago. “Once.”  
  
Jazz's leg tightened over his, probably sensing the tension that leaked into his field. “Wanna talk about it?”  
  
“No. I've had enough talking about it. This is all the therapy I need.” Bluestreak's lips twitched toward a smile as he stroked a hand down Jazz's back. “You're not the only one who gets something out of this, you know. We're a partnership.”  
  
“Yeah. We are. You 'n me.” Jazz hummed deep in his intake. “Still can't tell ya what happened though.”  
  
Bluestreak shuttered his optics, listening to Jazz's steady, rhythmic ventilations. “I know. But someday you will and then I can take the burden from you. Or we can share it. Whatever works.”  
  
“Someday. Someday. Ya still believe this war will end.” Jazz's field hummed with affection. “Wish I had your optimism.”  
  
Bluestreak made a non-committal noise. “I have to believe in something, Jazz. So I prefer to believe in you, Prowl, Prime, and every other Autobot out there fighting for the same things I am.”  
  
Jazz's hand stroked his doorwing hinges. “I love ya fer that, ya know.”  
  
“And other things.” Blustreak tilted his helm down, nuzzling his partner. “Go ahead and recharge. I'll guard your rest.”  
  
“Mmm.” Jazz settled against him, the ease in his frame a testament to the amount of trust he handed over to Bluestreak.  
  
Not just in their interfacing relationship, but outside of it as well.  
  
Bluestreak's spark warmed. This, right here, was all the satisfaction he needed.  
  



End file.
